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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27611336">tomorrow night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/meridies/pseuds/meridies'>meridies</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Family Dynamics, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Kinda, Psychic Abilities</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 02:28:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,907</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27611336</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/meridies/pseuds/meridies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy is desperately searching for his missing brother. Techno is the reluctant psychic who unfortunately got dragged along. </p><p>or, two people, more alike than different, learn what it is to have a family at their side.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Technoblade &amp; Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade &amp; TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>71</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1179</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>tomorrow night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i am not sure what this is, but i was trying to get out of my nanowrimo slump and this happened. enjoy!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Techno regrets many things, but the thing he most regrets currently is the situation he’s got himself into. </p><p>For one, the person sitting across from him at a ramen bar, down in San Francisco’s Western Addition district, is not someone who can reliably pay him a decent fee. This person is a teenager. Practically a kid— teenager is a compliment, and a stretch. </p><p>For two, he swings his legs from the booth seat, struggles to hold his chopsticks correctly, like he never learned, and for all the world looks like he has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. For three—</p><p>Techno’s horoscope that morning had been interesting. </p><p>
  <em> Gemini: Calm down and organize yourself before seizing upon any new ideas. Your spontaneity may bring you trouble.  </em>
</p><p>So he waits until the kid finishes talking before speaking.</p><p>“No can do,” Techno shrugs, ignoring the itching of that spontaneity, fingers at the back of his skull, “I’m not taking on any new patrons.”</p><p>“Please,” the kid begs. “This is important.” </p><p>“I charge a very high fee,” Techno continues. He gives the kid a dismissive glance, a flick up and down. “You think you can pay it?”</p><p>“I have money,” he says. “I worked at the gas station across the street from my home all last summer <em> and </em>at the supermarket, and I didn’t spend any of it. I saved it all, in a savings account. Which I set it up all on my own, by the way. I can definitely pay you.”</p><p>Techno sighs. Pokes his chopsticks at egg noodles saturated with spicy broth. The waitress at this ramen bar knows his order by heart now, and hadn’t hesitated with bringing it to him. The kid had taken a while longer to order. </p><p>“So let me get this straight,” Techno says, even though he heavily doubts the kid’s ability to pay him his hourly rate. “You’re searching for your dead brother?”</p><p>Knee-jerk response: “He’s not dead.” </p><p>“Then why the hell did you come to a psychic?”</p><p>The kid shifts, looks down. “I didn’t really have any other option.”</p><p>Another sigh. “What did you say your name was, again?”</p><p>“Tommy.”</p><p>“Well, Tommy,” Techno says pointedly, “You’re in the wrong place. I’m not a detective. I don’t hunt for people who ran away from their annoying little brothers. Scram and go find someone else to indulge in your wild goose chase.” </p><p>Techno catches the waitress’ eye. <em> Julie. </em>She nods in acknowledgement, ducks behind the counter to retrieve their check. At least Techno will pay for the kid’s meal, that’ll do him some good. Techno, all too well, knows the painful feel of rejection. </p><p>The kid— Tommy— puts a hand over his face. He scrubs at his eyes and blinks very fast, bracing himself. </p><p>“A lot of people think he’s dead,” Tommy says, nearly inaudible. “He’s been missing for the last year and a half.” A swallow, lips pressed tight. “Please, isn’t it just worth a shot?” </p><p>Julie sets the check down directly in between them. Two ramen bowls, one vegetarian, one rice tea and one glass of soda. Techno pulls out two crisp bills, presses them down, and signs the tip before Tommy can even begin to fumble out whatever money he’s brought with him. </p><p>“I can pay,” Tommy says dumbly. </p><p>Techno flicks his fingers at him. “I thought I said <em> scram</em>.”</p><p>Julie returns in the next moment and takes the money. Techno watches the sheen of the yellow lights reflect off her dark hair. The sounds of the other patrons swallow the restaurant whole. </p><p>“I’m not scramming.” Again, he pleads, “Please.” </p><p>Tommy is wearing an orange corduroy jacket that’s too big for him, with too many pockets. It looks awfully hot for a summer night in the center of San Francisco. </p><p>His stubbornness reminds Techno of someone close to him. It tugs at his heart strings, and he despises it. </p><p>“When’s your birthday?” Techno asks.</p><p>“April ninth.”</p><p>Techno's mind recalls, so vividly, the horoscope for Aries that morning.<em> You may have had some emotional disappointments lately, but today will restore your faith in love. All you need to do is stand strong, and refuse to back down.  </em></p><p>Techno hates himself. God, he really does.</p><p>The two of them exit the ramen bar in the next few minutes into the cool nighttime air. Fog hangs damp and low over the city, clouding out the stars. Techno passes an open park and his feet direct him towards his place of work, slowly and steadily. Tommy follows.</p><p>“So you’re looking for someone everyone else thinks is dead,” Techno says, and Tommy nods. “Any reason why you think he’s still alive?”</p><p>Tommy stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I don’t have a reason. I just know.”</p><p>“How long ago?”</p><p>“The fall before last,” he says. “In October.”</p><p>“Do you have anything to remember him by?” Tommy glances up at him. Techno continues, “A lot of people come to me with their loved one’s rosaries, a favorite piece of jewelry, a scrap of clothing. Something with an emotional connection.” </p><p>Tommy nods. There’s a click as he swallows. “I have something, yeah.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Slowly, Tommy reaches up and takes off the beanie he’s wearing. It’s deep maroon, crocheted wool. It looks like it was made by the world’s most feeble grandmother.</p><p>“It was his,” Tommy mumbles. “It’s pretty much all I have.”</p><p>Tommy’s hair is flattened. Needs a comb. He rakes his fingers through it as Techno turns over the beanie in his hands. Inside is a tag with initials: <em> W.S.  </em></p><p>“Alright,” Techno breathes. “I can work with this.” </p><p>The hope that blooms on Tommy’s face is glorious to witness. “Really?”</p><p>“Yes, really,” Techno says, and damns himself to hell and back. “I’ll help you.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Techno works in Haight-Ashbury district, at the intersection of Ashbury and a small, winding street. It’s a tiny corner shop, three paned windows, painted dark blue and red. It’s right across from the smoke shop that sells to underage teens without an ID and directly next to the thrift shop with too many ghosts. Techno wrinkles his nose at the strong smell of cannabis as he unlocks the door, ushers Tommy in after him. He flicks the lights on and wishes he had the forethought to organize a bit more. Mondays are usually his days off. </p><p>“You ever been to Haight-Ashbury?” he asks, noticing Tommy’s wide eyes.</p><p>Tommy shakes his head. “I’ve never been to San Francisco before.” </p><p>Christ. Techno really should have known he would be dealing with an amateur, from the way Tommy’s first email to him read, to his barely finding his way from the Caltrain station to the restaurant. </p><p>“Take a seat,” Techno says. “I’ll get some things from the back room and I’ll be back in a minute.”</p><p>He leaves Tommy staring wondrously at the cramped, tiny shelves full of rose quartz and white sage bundles, the eye-catching posters of the planets to junk books of old horoscopes. Techno passes through a door to the back and has to physically stop himself from thunking his head against the wall.</p><p>This is a goose chase. He already knows it is. </p><p>Besides, as much as his store reads <em> psychic available, </em>Techno isn’t one. He needs to make money for a living. People believe his lies, and he ends up being fairly accurate most of the time. What else is there to it?</p><p>But God, the look in Tommy’s eyes. </p><p>Techno steels himself. He digs around the back for his old ouija board, with its ivory planchette rubbed smooth from too many fingers. He doesn’t think that Tommy is the wide-eyed type to believe him with an ouija board, though, so Techno mentally flips through his go-to booklist of quotes to say to grieving people just in case Tommy calls him out on his bullshit. </p><p>He emerges a few minutes later. Tommy has sunk into a lavender armchair, slouching low, picking at his nails.  He perks up when he sees Techno return.</p><p>“This might not work,” Techno warns.</p><p>Tommy nods vigorously. His hair bounces. “That’s okay. It’s fine. Besides, it only works if he’s dead, right? And he’s not dead, so it probably won’t work. It’s fine. Anything works.”</p><p>Techno takes a seat across from him. The ouija board goes in between them, and Techno lowers his voice just slightly, quiets down. A classic way of setting the mood. A car drives past, blaring rap music, before fading from earshot. Neither Tommy nor Techno acknowledge it.</p><p>Techno places two fingers on the planchette, and Tommy does as well.</p><p>“What was his name?” Techno asks. </p><p>“Wilbur,” Tommy says. “His name is Wilbur.” </p><p>“Wilbur,” Techno calls, “Your brother would like to talk to you.”</p><p>Static, rising in the air. </p><p>When nothing happens, Techno, subtly, pushes the planchette in a random direction. </p><p>“C,” Tommy whispers, “C… O… L… D? Cold? Why is he saying cold?” He glances up at Techno. “Why is he cold? Ask him why he’s cold.”</p><p>Techno fights down the taste of reproach, sour in the back of his throat. </p><p>“Wilbur,” Techno says blandly, “Why are you cold?”</p><p>Dead silence. Techno gives the planchette a tiny push. It slides across the wood, smooth. </p><p>“L-A-K-E,” Tommy reads out. “Like— like Lake Melones? Where we went when we were kids?” </p><p>Techno pauses. “Where’s Lake Melones?”</p><p>“It’s out east,” Tommy says, eyes fervent and bright, “We used to go there all the time as kids, and we ice skated when it snowed over the lake, and I remember laughing with him, and…”</p><p>He trails off. </p><p>“Technoblade,” he says, “Would you come with me?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“To Lake Melones,” Tommy says. His words, jumbled together. “He has to be there— there’s no way the board thing would have said that unless there was something to find! It’s only a few hours, by car— I have to go, I have to.” He snatches the beanie back, lying on the table, and crams it onto his head. “Please, I’ve never gotten any hint of him before, I have to.”</p><p>Techno stares.</p><p>“I’m not going with you on a road trip,” he says dismissively. “I’ve done my job. I’ll let you off the hook with payment, I don’t care that much. Congrats, you got what you wanted.”</p><p>“No, no,” Tommy fumbles, “I’ll pay you for this, too! I can, I promise. Just come with me, please.” </p><p>
  <em> Gemini: Your spontaneity may bring you trouble.   </em>
</p><p>The entire store smells of sage and mugwort. His mouth tastes of chili oil and green scallions and rice tea, steeped too long in its pot. Tommy sits across from him. In the dim light of the store, his blue eyes look nearly silver. </p><p>“Fine,” Techno says, his voice crumbling to pieces. “I’ll go.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It turns out that Wilbur Soot is Tommy’s older brother, the elder by about five years. Tommy is fifteen and legally emancipated. There’s a story there, but Techno is kind enough not to ask. </p><p>Instead, he is forced to listen to Tommy talk about everything else. He currently lives in Placerville, a stone’s throw from the busy city of Sacramento. There, Tommy works quickly and silently on a neighbor’s farm and takes odd jobs to make ends meet. A train ride to San Francisco costs nearly eighty dollars, and all that is washed down the train. Techno tries not to feel bad about leading him along with these lies.</p><p>Techno’s car, a small, washed up sedan barely big enough for four people, chugs along. He had offered to drive Tommy, which he now sorely regrets. Tommy talks about schoolwork and algebra homework and from the recesses of his memory, Techno dredges up enough information from his own school days to play along. Tommy talks about his teachers, the ones he likes, the ones he doesn’t. He talks until they reach a road sign for Lake Melones. </p><p>“We used to come here all the time as kids,” Tommy reminisces. “It was something we would do every winter, when things were easier, I guess. Did you know that the lake freezes in winter? By the edges it’s thick enough that you can ice skate on it and you don’t fall through. I’m real shit at ice skating, though. I always fall, even if someone’s trying to help me. Wilbur laughed at me a lot for it.” </p><p>“Hm,” Techno hums blankly. </p><p>“Wilbur tried to teach me a lot,” Tommy offers. “He was really good at it, I don’t know how. I guess I just don’t have the balance for it. He’s a lot better at me than everything, though.” </p><p>“So what are you looking for, here?” Techno asks. He doesn’t think he can listen to any more childish rambling. </p><p>Tommy looks around. “I don’t know.”</p><p>“Okay,” Techno says, and sits. </p><p>Tommy, clingy, sits next to him. </p><p>
  <em> If you don’t think he’s dead, why are you trusting what an ouija board said about him?  </em>
</p><p>Techno doesn’t say that. </p><p>“Did Wilbur have any close memories here?” Techno asks instead. “Anything that would bring him here?”</p><p>“Pretty much what I said,” Tommy says. “Though he would always go hiking. He liked the trails, I think. And he played guitar a lot. Still does, I hope.”</p><p>Techno sighs. “Any place that would give you a clue as to where he went?”</p><p>“Maybe the trails?” Tommy says, a hint of hope. </p><p>“I am not going hiking.”</p><p>“Then I don’t know.” </p><p>Techno looks out over the lake. It’s threadbare and blue, woven in with indigo. Techno has no doubts that even in the summer, it would chill him to his bone if he were to go swimming. Silver fish flit around the shallow pools, darting in and out. Absentmindedly he looks at the clouds, sinking low over the horizon. </p><p>“Come on,” Techno says. “I’ll drive you back. There’s nothing more you’re getting out of this.”</p><p>“Wait,” Tommy says, “Just like that?”</p><p>“Yes."</p><p>“But there has to be more,” Tommy says. “What if— there’s more places, I know there are. Can we try my old home?”</p><p>“Your old home?” </p><p>Tommy nods, eagerly, eyes shining. “Any place where he could be. Any place at all.”</p><p>For a moment, Tommy reminds Techno of someone he used to know. He reminds him of Techno, just the slightest. Like two sides of the same rusted coin. </p><p>
  <em> Comparison is the thief of joy.  </em>
</p><p>“Okay,” Techno says. Imagine the same vibrancy on himself and can’t picture it. “Only to get you to shut up.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Dunville, California. The dullest place on earth. </p><p>“I used to live here,” Tommy explains, feet crunching through dried grass. “Back when I was a kid, before Wilbur and I moved out on our own. It wasn’t great, but still. It’s in my memories, I guess.” </p><p>Techno glances around. It’s the direct opposite of Haight-Ashbury, of Techno’s cramped apartment towered on top of his little psychic shop. Dunville is wide open, the sky stretching for miles, painted in shades of gold and blue. Tommy points out things that he recognizes, along the way. That street there changed its name, for no reason whatsoever. That apartment complex is now condemned. That house has been torn down, rebuilt, torn down again. It has a <em> for sale </em>sign in front of it. Techno’s fingers twitch as he walks past. </p><p>“So,” he says, once he’s grown tired of hearing a fifteen year old expunge his memories for hours, “Where do you think Wilbur is?”</p><p>“I, uh,” A pause, moment of silence. “Can’t you do your psychic thing? Figure it out?”</p><p>Techno quietly thanks God that Tommy evidently has no idea how a psychic works. Truth be told, neither does Techno.</p><p>“I can try,” Techno says. “It’ll take me a moment. I need to think.” </p><p>This what he thinks of: </p><p>Horoscopes, written for star signs. The way the moon is drifting from Sagittarius into Capricorn right now. The push and pull of radio stations, fading in and out of contact as Techno’s car gets closer to civilization. The neon glow of a gas station, tabloids reading out celebrity scandals. The taste of an old friend’s apricot tarts in his mouth, soft and sweet. </p><p>“I think there’s something to do with an old home,” Techno lies. “I'm getting something with floorboards and a map.”</p><p>Tommy’s eyes widen. “The orphanage! Of course!”</p><p>“The orphanage,” Techno says, and he can do nothing but follow.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tommy goes into what looks like an abandoned house and emerges a few hours later clutching a shoebox close to his chest. It’s dusty and falling apart at the hinges, but Tommy treats it like the most treasured possession in the world.</p><p>“I don’t know how I could have forgotten,” he rambles on, “He always said he had this secret stash of information, for when we would escape together, but I never knew where he was hiding it. I can’t believe I didn’t think of floorboards, until you said it, and there it was.” He laughs, clutching the shoebox close to his chest. “He’s close by! He has to be.” </p><p>Techno thinks about blond hair. A laugh, familiar and warming. He hasn’t heard a laugh like it in a long time. </p><p>“Interesting,” Techno says, voice thin. He’s stuck in his memories like black tar. “What’s in it?”</p><p>“A map.” Tommy’s voice is reverent. “Just like you said.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The map points them towards Menboro, California, and so they go. </p><p>Tommy demands that Techno pull over at a gas station a few hours later, once the night is heavy and low over the sky. The summer air is crisp on his skin, and Tommy says that no, he doesn’t mind, he can pay. He has money, remember, Techno? </p><p>He’s stopped calling him Technoblade, and instead uses a nickname. Techno isn’t sure what to think. </p><p>“Here,” Tommy says, clambering back into the car. “I got us snacks.” </p><p>“Of course,” Techno says, tone dripping with sarcasm. “How incredibly important towards finding your dead brother.”</p><p>“He’s not dead,” Tommy says. </p><p>“Yeah, right,” Techno says, mouth moving before his mind can catch it, “And my father’s not gone.”</p><p>He doesn’t mean to say it, but he says it anyway. </p><p>Tommy shifts lower in the passenger seat. Kicks absentmindedly against the flooring. Tears open a package of chips, salty and cheesy, and then glances over at Techno. Techno feels his gaze like a hot wire, piercing against his skin. </p><p>“Your father?”</p><p>The road ahead stays still. Techno’s hands do not waver.</p><p>“Never mind,” he says, and feels the memories tug at the hems of his mind, sleepy and longing and aching. “Tell me more about Wilbur.” </p><p>So Tommy does. Tells him about a song that Wilbur wrote one time, about living in La Jolla. Embarrassingly, Tommy admits that the first place he looked was there, and it depleted his savings awfully. He returned back to Placerville in shame, head hung, and tried his best to move on. From what he knows about California, Techno recalls that La Jolla is far down the coast by San Diego. Since Tommy can’t drive, and a plane certainly must have been too expensive for a kid to take on his own, Techno ascertains that Tommy took the train all the way down. </p><p>“Is it worth returning?”</p><p>Tommy, on his second chocolate bar, shakes his head. “There’s nothing there. Wilbur promised that if he ever went, he would take me. And Wilbur never breaks his promises.”</p><p>Techno doesn’t point out that Wilbur seems to have broken many promises in the past, namely leaving Tommy alone. He’s gotten to know Tommy, just a bit more, and Techno can’t imagine leaving him alone at this point. </p><p>He’s just a kid. What kind of brother leaves someone else alone? What kind of brother does that? </p><p>What kind of <em>father</em> does that?</p><p>“Would you ever want to live there?” Tommy asks, a few minutes later. "La Jolla?"</p><p>The radio station plays static. </p><p>“No,” Techno says. “I’m fine where I am.”</p><p>Tommy looks at him curiously. </p><p>Techno looks back, even and unimpressed. He allows his cynicism to wash over himself, protective and comforting. This, he knows, is manageable. Cynicism is a familiar friend. </p><p>“Okay,” Tommy says, and the conversation crumbles. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Menboro, California is a summery town in the midst of waving fields of grain. Techno rubs a hand along a wooden fence post and watches Tommy wander forward. </p><p>Tommy revealed that Wilbur’s birthday was September fourteenth. Virgo. Techno recalls reading a horoscope, a few weeks prior. About the time Tommy had emailed him, desperately seeking guidance, help.</p><p>
  <em> Virgo: Recognize that you can learn and grow from help. Do not push others away.  </em>
</p><p>Fat lot of good that did, then. </p><p>Wilbur is dead. He must be. No teenager— he supposes Wilbur was an adult, but regardless— goes missing for over a year and ends up alive. Techno is pragmatic, not pessimistic. He doesn’t allow optimism to cloud his judgement, but he’ll still hope for things if he thinks it will happen. </p><p>Tommy is not that. Tommy sleeps in the backseat while Techno runs himself dry and probably dreams about finding his brother again. Techno wishes he still had that childhood innocence. </p><p>“Menboro sucks,” Tommy grouses, returning a half hour later. He wandered around the town square for a while before the summer sun got to be too much for him. Now he and Techno are sitting under the dappled shade of an apple tree. Techno’s sleeves are rolled up. Tommy’s orange corduroy jacket is crumpled to the side, and underneath is a plain red and white tee. Like baseball. Pinch hitters. </p><p>“There’s nothing here,” Techno says dispassionately. “Goose chase. Like I said."</p><p>“For someone who speaks to ghosts for a living, you sure are a skeptic,” Tommy says. </p><p>“Psychics don’t just communicate with ghosts, you know,” Techno says. “And I’m a realist, not a pessimist.” </p><p>“That’s what all pessimists say,” Tommy says. “I would know. I’m an optimist.” </p><p>A faint laugh erupts from Techno’s throat, and it almost shocks him into silence. He can count the amount of times he’s laughed in the last year on both hands, maybe just one. It feels strange to hear himself so happy. </p><p>He swallows, says, “All optimists are the same. They’re all blind fools.”</p><p>Tommy sets his gaze on the horizon. The sun is piercing.</p><p>“I’m not giving up,” he says. “I know Wilbur’s somewhere around here.”</p><p>“Where’s next on the map?”</p><p>The map is the one from the shoebox, folded and unfolded so many times that it’s worn down like fabric. Techno can see fraying begin at the corners of the folds, and Tommy treats the map so gently that it’s like a baby in his hands. </p><p>“Madeline,” Tommy reads. “Up north.” </p><p>“That’s a ways away.”</p><p>“I know,” Tommy says. Quietly: “Thank you for all of this, by the way.”</p><p>Techno neatly doesn’t mention how this road trip has been the only thing that has made him feel alive in the last year. “You’ll owe me.”</p><p>Tommy huffs a laugh. “I’m not sure I have enough money to pay for all of this.”</p><p>Techno pushes himself up, wipes his hands up, and sticks a hand out for Tommy to grab. “I figured. I don’t think it matters at this point.”</p><p>“Can we still keep going?” Tommy asks. </p><p>Techno’s little sedan, still sputtering along. </p><p>“If you want,” Techno says, neither a confirmation or rejection. </p><p>“Okay,” Tommy says, “Then let’s keep going.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Midnight, and Tommy and Techno sit with two fingers each on an ivory planchette. It’s not cold, not at all, but something about the scenario makes goosebumps prickle out on his skin. The back of his neck, down his spine. </p><p>“Wilbur,” Techno says, voice swallowed by the darkness, “Are you there?”</p><p>They’re in this position because Techno’s comments about Wilbur not being alive had hit too close to home. Tommy has been worrying. Techno has been unsure about what to do. The ouija board offered itself as a battleground for the truth. </p><p>Techno waits, and the planchette doesn’t move. So he moves it himself.</p><p>
  <em> H-E-L-L-O. </em>
</p><p>“Hi,” Tommy breathes. “Hi, Wilby. Hi.”</p><p>It’s a childish nickname. Tommy seems to realize that, because after he says it out loud, his face flushes pink. He ducks his head, and mutters, “I used to call him Wilby a lot. Back when we were younger. He hates it.” </p><p>Techno doesn’t lift his hand from the planchette. “Do you have any questions for him?”</p><p>“Wilbur,” Tommy says, “Are you alive or dead?”</p><p>At first, Techno doesn’t move the planchette, not at all. He sees a childlike hope blooming in Tommy’s eyes, a hibiscus unfurling under summer heat. Oleander waving in the summer wind. He sees an adult-like dread forming behind it, sticky and coagulated and thorny. </p><p>Carefully, slowly, gently: </p><p>The planchette spells out <em> H-E-R-E. </em></p><p>“Here,” Tommy repeats. “Where’s here? Where are you? Are you in Madeline?” </p><p>Techno directs it towards <em> no. </em></p><p>Tommy’s voice, trembling. “Then where? What do you mean, here?”</p><p>Painstakingly, silently, dully: </p><p>The planchette writes <em> W-I-T-H Y-O-U. </em></p><p>Techno is only fifty percent certain that those last words were written by him. </p><p>Tommy’s face crumples.</p><p>He takes his hand off the planchette, even though that’s the one instruction Techno’s told him not to do. Even as a skeptic, Techno has enough reverence for the dead to not leave them hanging.</p><p>But it doesn’t matter. Tommy stands up, puts his hands into his pockets. Wilbur’s beanie, knitted and red, is pulled low around his ears. </p><p>“With you,” he mutters. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” </p><p>“With you,” Techno repeats. “It means that he’s with you.” </p><p>He isn’t sure whether he’s made Tommy feel worse or feel better.</p><p>“That stupid board must be broken,” Tommy scowls. “It’s all fucked up.”</p><p>Tommy, Techno has noticed, swears a lot more when he’s upset. </p><p>“You did take your hand away,” Techno notes.</p><p>“Fuck off,” Tommy says, and then retracts. “Sorry.”</p><p>Techno shrugs. </p><p>Like in a trance, Tommy mutters, “What the fuck does <em> with you </em>even mean?” </p><p>Techno doesn’t have an answer. There are no answers to lies. </p><p>His horoscope for yesterday: </p><p>
  <em> Gemini: Be careful not to fall prey to your own idealism.  </em>
</p><p>“Tommy,” Techno says quietly, after Tommy has stopped wringing his hands searching for meaning, “Have I ever told you about Phil?”</p><p>Tommy’s eyes, red rimmed. His hands, fidgeting. Picking at nails. There’s a band-aid, taken from Techno’s glovebox, wrapped around his thumb.</p><p>“No,” he says, voice numb. “Who’s Phil?”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Techno says, “My friend.”</p><p>And also, “My father.” </p><p>And then, “I think he’s the closest I’ve ever had to having family. The only person who ever meant something to me. When I first moved to San Francisco he was the one who told me about seeing ghosts, and how to be free of them. What it felt like to be free of your past.”</p><p>The road ahead is straight, unturning. Techno feels the engine thrum beneath his feet. They left Madeline, California behind and moved onto the next portion of the map. Wilbur had starred small cities, put scribbled writing next to them that only Tommy could decipher. Techno glanced at it only once before knowing that handwriting was a key to the soul that only a brother could read. Absentmindedly, he wonders if he’s still the only person able to read Phil’s handwriting, or if someone else is able to by now. </p><p>“Is he alive?” Tommy’s voice is small.</p><p>“He moved away,” Techno says. “A year ago.” </p><p>
  <em> I haven’t spoken to him since. I haven’t stopped thinking about him. If he reaches out, I don’t know about it.  </em>
</p><p>“Tell me about him more,” Tommy says.</p><p>And Techno obliges.</p><p>He talks, and talks, and talks. Recalls every piece and memory that’s buried underneath debris. Talks about the ramen bar, that he discovered purely because Phil took him there. Phil convinced him to go vegetarian for a month, when he first moved to the city, and Techno hasn’t looked back since. </p><p>On March first, Techno quietly whispered happy birthday to the air. He still checks two horoscopes daily: his, and Phil’s.</p><p>
  <em> Pisces: It may be time to look at where you are in life. Are you where you want to be? </em>
</p><p>A road, one way, in the middle of nowhere. A teenager who crawled his way into Techno’s heart without meaning to, sitting in the passenger seat. An ouija board and ivory planchette, holding the words of someone very dear to Tommy. </p><p>Tommy pulls his knees to his chest, looks out the window. The map sits unfolded on top of the dashboard.</p><p>Techno’s throat is dry. He says, “Was that enough for you?”</p><p>“It sounds like you needed to talk about him,” Tommy says. “Was that enough for <em> you </em>?”</p><p>A breath in, a breath out. The call of a songbird, fluttering overhead. Wind rushes by. </p><p>
  <em> Am I where I want to be?</em>
</p><p>“Yes,” Techno says. “I think I needed that.”</p><p>“Good,” Tommy says. “Then it was enough for me, too.”</p><p>A moment of silence. Neither of them speak. The radio station they’re listening to plays snippets of songs, cutting in and out of tune. Pieces that Techno doesn’t recognize, chords and phrases that he does. </p><p>“Are you ever going to talk to him again?” Tommy asks. He sounds far older than his fifteen years.</p><p>“Maybe,” Techno says.</p><p>“You should.” </p><p>He amends, “I will.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Techno asks, “Where’s the next stop?”</p><p>Tommy checks the map. “Richdale, California.”</p><p>Techno thinks about saying, <em> Tommy, there’s no need to look for what you already have. </em></p><p>Instead, he just drives. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>if you enjoyed, please leave kudos or comments, they rly make my day! ty for reading &lt;3</p></blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30451173">one foot in front of the other</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/soaring_lyrebird/pseuds/soaring_lyrebird">soaring_lyrebird</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
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